Dr. Pants Mcturd's MORE Than True Horrorscopes

           Dr. Pants McTurd's MORE Than True Horror-scopes

                 

                                 

disclaimer: Satire, like flatulence is assumed (incorrectly) to be mostly ignitable methane.

this week: In your face, aussies… the sun is ours once again.

Doc P’s Word of the Week: selcouth. It’s as strange as its definition.

Aries- No one can predict the future. I mean, I can, but without me, you’re up crap creek and it’s hot and heavy deep in frog mating season. Your future is coming. It’s coming at you like the accidental drop of a toilet seat that wakes up everybody in the freakin’ house, and they all know you’re the clutzy a-hole, the same jerk who once woke up peeing into the washing machine and doing worse in the dryer. As always I’m replete with caveats, so feel free to unbelieve the following: I can tell you your future, but you won’t believe me—my own Cassandra Complex. There’s twelve monkeys on your back that prevent me from telling you how close you are to a hidden booty of the most divine nacre. Prepare to get lacquered, smackered and totally tally wackered.

Taurus- Statistically, more blueberry muffins are sold in the world than any other kind of muffin. Before we debate, let me hit you with an evolutionary viewing area. Blueberries are the most economically adapted to our societal, cultural, and dietary needs more than any other fruit-- at least in terms of muffins. Sure... an apple muffin, a cran-upsidedown-pineapple, or my personal preference, chocolate chocolate chip with added chocolate chunks and pieces of dark chocolate covered chocolate beans, would be swell and/or nifty, but they’re a niche market. Blueberries have cornered the market in the muffin world. They are the Google. They’re the Apple and Microsoft. The Corleone family. Blueberries are powerful entities steeped in primordial bogs. Be the berry. Be the bog. Dominate the evolution.

Gemini- Based solely on the ability to levitate, my favorite saint by far is Joseph of Cupertino. And no, it’s the original Cupertino in Italy, not the techno d-bag enclave in the bay area. Granted, most religions have cool flying fat guys who like to proselytize and spread the good word either through this martyr or that, or through the teaching of mindfulness (what a waste of time...). But Joe was described by his ‘friends’ as ‘remarkably unclever’. He often stood gaping, just staring into space. And then he’d start levitating, elevating his status to airborne and unclever. Consequently, he’s the patron saint of astronauts, aviators, and test takers. Up there, in the sky, it’s you, not breathing in a high altitude test that you think determines your future. Your sainthood is assured. Breathe easy and just fall. The earth will catch you.

Cancer- A guy asked me one morning, ‘Hey, pal, how are you going to make today special?’ I couldn’t detect any sarcasm, which threw me off. He was serious. Okay, well first I’m going to do my level best not to take this guy’s positive attitude and crap all over it. Then I’m going to consider and see if I can be less of an a-hole and give a reasonable answer, which is possible but doubtful. So I asked him the same question. He said, ‘On Sunday we always go volunteer at this shelter downtown, and then we go to the hospital and bring kittens for kids with cancer to play with.’ Yep, I’m the a-hole. My plan was to include several beers, some light pouting, maybe a bag of cookies and then bed. Somehow, there’s people out there who don’t feel the constancy of my anger, dissonance and defeatism in the face of man’s inhumanity to man. Go figure. So, sans sarcasm, what are you going to do to make today special?

Leo- Joseph Pujol, I fart in your general direction. You might know him better as Le Petomane, the 19^th century vaudevillian, who had an innate ability to expand and contract his intestines and rectum at will, becoming history’s most famous professional farter. I prefer the term of art, fartiste. He was adept at such crowd pleasers as blowing out a candle from several feet away, performing ‘O Sole Mio’ on an ocarina through a rubber tube shoved you-know-where, and an artfully done impression of the 1906 San Fran earthquake, which never failed to bring down the house. I doubt you have his innate gifts, but I guarantee that whatever your weirdest and most secret talent is, you will find a perfect outlet for it. It may even put wind in your sails that will take you to never imagined ports of call. Vive Le Petomane!!

Virgo- Men do things for women without necessarily expecting sex in return. I can’t keep a straight keyboard, I’m just kidding. Any interest men show in women otherwise is based on a spiritual desire to fill the unfillable void that exists within all of us as our hormone levels peak, and then slowly decline over time. We are biochemical machines, an amino acid here, a slight twist of the genetic code there, and voila—I’m spend an inordinate amount of time trying to decide which shoes to wear because I hear that women actually notice a man’s shoes, and then realizing that if that’s true, the kind of woman who I will attract will either have terrible taste or immense amounts of pity. Which may be exactly what I should be looking for—someone to understand my fashion disabilities, disinterest and disdain. Point is, maybe you too should stop looking for what you think you want, and lead the life that’s been waiting for you. Life isn’t in your shoes, it’s all around you.

Libra- George Carlin once said, ‘Maybe god created humans because he wanted plastic, and he didn’t know how to make it for himself’. I love and miss that man. Which brings me and my fellow irishman to a common point: seems like we do tons of stuff that god can’t do himself, like cliff diving, nation building, crossword puzzles, new and creative web porn, and the American Kennel Club. However, belief in god, and the desire to please god is a hard-wired process in my brain. At some point it became advantageous for us to create a god figure, usually according to the dictates of whatever wack-a-doo society we’re in. For example, I grew up in a small town in remote Taffypullastan, where tradition dictated that this huge rock in the center of town was in fact, god. I think it was god simply because it was too big to move. Anyhowdy, I’ve spent my time rock polishing! Repeat after me: Now, it’s me time. What am I going to do for me today?

Scorpio- I can see the depravity behind your smile, but I find it gamesome and passing courteous, and more than a turn on. Your eyes are well meaning and full of cylindrical holes, that strain your noodle, all the while preventing it from slipping down the drain. Reverse your polarity and engage the magnetic field that your planet had forgotten existed. Deflect and deny the solar fusion rays that bind your anatomy to rotten soil. You’re no comet, passing blindly ‘round the ‘verse, hoping that one day, you’ll be close enough to hit my planetside and loose your water and magic upon a thirsty world. You’re my moon, my satellite, my tide maker and life producer. We are bound together chemically, despite the space between us. Shine on, you crazy diamond.

Sagittarius- There has already been a patent approved for underwear that contains a charcoal filter and an “escape hole” designed for… well, obvious reasons. I’m wearing the charcoal filter right now and it is so comfortable, I hardy know I’ve got it on! They weren’t cheap, though. So I also have the poor man’s version of the charcoal filter, a dryer sheet that I just shove into the back of my pants. I get lots of comments on how I smell like rotten eggs on a spring day. Patents can be the stupidest money makers. Your ridiculous ideas may not be so delirious. However, the Slot Machine Shaped Toaster, Motorized Ice Cream Cone, and the Tomato Raisin are already taken—no kidding, look ‘em up. Go boldly forth, propagate your strange reality upon our agape maws, and get filthy filthy rich.

Capricorn- The professional farters of medieval Ireland were called braigetori. I’ll just let that statement sink in a sec before I make several salient points. There’s been professional level farters throughout history and I’m just learning this now?! The indigenous Innu of Canada got this spirit guy, Matshishkapeu, literally the ‘Fart Man’, who can inflict gastrointestinal pain or relief upon unsuspecting humans. I want this power. There’s something righteous about it. I think the future is all about control of one’s own bowels and hopefully the bowels of others. Sign up now for my special yoga course, where I teach the ‘ins and outs’ of at-will-flatulence. It’s real, and it’s the future-- your future. Together we will revolutionize the lost art of the flatulist, aka the farteur, aka the fartiste, which I believe is the sequel to 2010’s Best Picture winner. Together we will pass the mightiest of winds, so batten your hatches, bring out your dead, and light a scented candle.

Aquarius- I don’t get artichokes. Firstly, it’s in the thistle family. It’s a flower. What? I’m already lost. Secondish, you have to dig the meat out from the involucral bracts, aka as the heart, which I find strangely symbolic. I dig and I dig for the heart of a flower only to cook it, scrape it and serve it as hors d’oeuvres like a heathen from Castroville, the self proclaimed artichoke capital of the world. I just don’t get it. What weirdo was the first human to scrape the insides of a thistle and think, yeah this would be good on a pizza. Also, the word choke is right there in the name. Not exactly confidence inspiring. And yet, they’re pretty delicious and nutritious. Thistles in my belly today make for good poo poo platters tomorrow. Whatever your artichoke is right now, make friends with it, put it on a pizza and devour it, thereby releasing its power unto you.

Pisces- I’m on to your lame game of thorny crowns and gastric swords of intestinal distress; as well as your higgledy-piggledy wayward sons who end up prodigal, not by their own choosing, but rather your royal edicts. Come hither, and tell me what you’re afraid of and I will not discount it. I will disprove it. Instead, I will prove you a loveable fool, my blue and funny valentine, and a shedder of crocodile tears as a defense against the big bad wolf you’ve cooked up in your head. Hook, line and sinker you’ve been reeled in by the evil twin of the fisherman in the yellow rain slicker on that fish sticks box. Long John Silver and his fast fish food have captivated your torso for too long with fishy tales that you’d have to be stoned to believe. Meet me at the beach and let’s come together where the air, the water and the land find common ground.